Ambling

I always thought that I would have naturally achieved an omniscient knowledge of just about everything by the time I retired. Still, surprisingly, I am on a journey of continued discovery. Although none of my new knowledge will radically change life as I know it, my continuing enlightenment never ceases to amaze me. For example, I have recently learned the difference between hiking and walking. A hike to me meant a hearty constitutional that takes place off tarmac roads; ‘sturdy’ shoes are probably needed, possibly a hat, a bottle of water, and a general standard of health. I felt I pretty much understood a “hike” until I attempted one!

Chiangmai, Thailand, where I live, is situated on a valley plain surrounded by hilly mountains covered with deep, thick, luxurious rainforests and vegetation.  Around the hillside farms, dotted alongside the many small villages and scrubby living areas, Buddhist temples abound. Leading away from the habitations are countless, demanding hiking tracks that twist and climb into the vast vegetation, with dizzying, potentially lethal drops on either side.

My friend Sally said: “Let’s go for a walk”, and invited me on an organised hike to the Buddha's Footprint, a rock formation on an elevated ridge within the mountains, accessible only by hiking. Sally, like me, totally underestimated what any hike entailed. She insisted that our walk would be very moderate, perhaps little more than a gentle stroll, sauntering through some lovely flora and fauna and maybe happening upon the occasional cute country cafe. It sounded excellent. Although I had never visited this area, I was assured of its stunning beauty high in the mountains. For some reason, I fell into the trap of believing that Sally had some personal, intimate understanding of the hike ahead of us. I soon found that our meagre knowledge of a hike resulted in us both being exhausted halfway up a mountain and out of our comfort zone.

We jumped into a taxi sometime before dawn and set off for our “Saturday walk”. We sat in the back wearing our hiking costumes consisting of thin t-shirts and three-quarter length leggings, clutching backpacks that were bursting only with pleasure food. From the windows, we watched with mounting fear as our route took us higher and higher. As the journey progressed, our driver struggled with the defiant gear stick, frequently hitting a non-existent gear as we slid around the road’s dangerous curves. 

Dawn seemed to take a long time to break, and strangely the sun didn’t seem to rise. It turned out that what I had thought was the pre-dawn sky was, in fact, enormous, dark, pendulous, black rain clouds, positively racing to position themselves right over the Doi Pui village just as we arrived.

We were deposited in a mountainside village near a marketplace that was not yet fully assembled. Being early in the morning, there was only one operating cafe, and it offered cheap instant coffee liberally sweetened with condensed milk and served in well-worn tin canisters. Woks heated over hot flames hissed and spat as their contents were tossed, and the smell of fried breakfast noodles filled the air. As I sat nursing my undrinkable coffee, the weather began to close in, and the temperature started to plummet.  Having only experienced Chiangmai in the oppressive heat, this was not what I expected, and my thin T-shirt offered little respite against the approaching miserable temperatures.  

Soon the other hiking participants began to gather near the cafe. All the participants wore substantial hiking boots and expensive ponchos and carried hiking sticks. Sally and I were dressed for a Saturday morning stroll. Not only were we considerably older than the other hikers, none of them possessed the stout ‘Winnie the Pooh’ shape that I carried. 

There were 39 of us, and we aimlessly spread across the village's main road, causing farm vehicles and residents to come to a standstill. We appeared utterly oblivious to the chaos we were causing.  Our Group Leader (GL) appeared amongst us and quickly and efficiently moved all to the crumbling edge of the main village road. The hikers now apprehensively gripped their expensive hiking boots to the poorly-maintained tarmac to avoid delivery trucks tipping us over the sheer drop behind. Sally and I shivering in the cool, damp air, tried to peer over the treacherous edge and began to wonder just how gentle our Saturday stroll would be!

This wasn’t my first experience of a hike with Sally, and you’d think by now I would have learnt to be suspicious of Sally’s ‘great idea’. We did a jungle hike several years ago. Another of Sally’s ‘pleasant walks’. It was only when we were underway on our hike that it became obvious there was no rescue plan should anyone become ill or injured. After the first hour, I found the hike through the jungle almost beyond me, but four hours later, when we finally emerged into a village, I almost demanded an ambulance. 

On the ‘jungle hike’, at least all participants were ‘old’, definitely not fit, and all, excluding two, had failed fundamentally to understand the meaning of the word ‘hike’. None of us was prudently dressed, and most wore cheap canvas shoes only really suitable for a summer promenade.  Two people turned up in hiking boots and carried hiking sticks - bizarrely, we all laughed behind their backs and commented about these two idiots. These two looked as if they were going on a hike, whereas the wife of a well-known travel writer turned up in shorts and skimpy summer sandals! 

Exhausted at the end of the hike, I removed my shoes and was shocked that my socks were soaked in blood. Giant, fat, hungry leeches had hitched a ride, eating their way through my canvas shoes, and had drunkenly gorged themselves on my feet. I was assured they would eventually drop off to enjoy a post-banquet snooze. I just sat and stared miserably at my feet until they finally plopped off.

So here were Sally and I, a few years on, and we had learnt nothing. In the intervening years between the hikes, Sally and I had made zero effort to keep healthy and pliant. Surrounded by the supple, loose-limbed hikers, we were far more stiff-hipped and round-shouldered than our companions. Again thinking we were on a walk (when the description had clearly stated ‘Hike’), our apparel was so unsuitable for undertaking a perilous trek halfway up a mountain. If just one other hiker had spoken to us instead of staring at our canvas shoes, they would have realised we didn’t have a clue about the journey ahead of us.

Shouting, “a little rain never harmed anyone”, GL began the hike proper at the base of the first climb and began by counting us individually. During the count, I immediately seized the opportunity to make as many new friends as possible. I started talking and laughing loudly with anyone unable to get away from me. I have always acknowledged that my voice is loud, but someone in the group was annoyingly speaking even louder than me. Infuriated, I looked around for the person with the blaring voice who was in danger of drowning me out. It turned out that it was GL going through the Health and Safety rules and had managed to make contact with everyone in the group - except me. GL's first instruction was ‘single file, please’, but having missed this, I tried to catch up with various people so I could double up and continue talking. Less than happy with me, GL swooped towards me and stuck his left arm in front of my chest, preventing me from going forward whilst shooing my hapless companions into a single file and telling them to follow his instructions. He turned, bent down towards me (he was very tall, and I am very short), his face as close to mine as he could without touching:

’Single file, please,’ he bellowed loudly straight into my confused face. Chastened and bright red I follow, this time, in single file.

Rain ponchos went on; everyone tucked hiking trousers into socks (preventing leaches) except Sally and myself, who were not wearing hiking trousers. We were told to spray ourselves liberally with mosquito repellent, but we hadn’t packed repellent and just looked at each other stupidly.  

Off we climbed into the rapidly descending black clouds.  

From the start, the rain was heavy, making the ground a muddy, slippy quagmire. GL was unbelievably athletic and kept running from the front of the 39 individuals to the back of the line and then running up the sheer sides of the mountain to get a drone’s eye-view of us whilst shouting, “Come, Come”. How the hell did he keep going?

We’d only been climbing for about 20 minutes when I was prepared to give up due to being exhausted and sweating horribly, mainly due to fighting and dragging my canvas shoes out of the mud. The noise of squeaking ponchos was almost deafening. I soon lost sight of the people in front of me, who were much more robust and fitter than me. My thigh muscles had begun to involuntary shake and scream in pain; my breathing was coming in short sharp gasps, and I could no longer communicate with Sally. I knew my facial expression was not of a woman thoroughly enjoying herself. There were two men behind us whom I could hear but couldn’t see as the mist, and heavy clouds had slowly cocooned us in our individual cloud-filled worlds.  

A short while later, exhausted, I could hear a waterfall and using any excuse to stop the searing pain in my legs and give my lungs a chance to sort themselves out, I sauntered off with my camera to take a couple of snaps, unaware I had broken a hiking rule.  GL, from absolutely nowhere (I swear the man was nowhere in sight two seconds ago), descended the muddy, lethal mountainside, running and screaming something to do with ‘breaking the rules’. The backstop man and his companion - who happened to be a man wearing very heavy thick makeup — were given a severe talking to. It turned out that the two men at the back had been appointed as Backstops to make sure none of the hiking group wandered off, got lost or injured. A truly excellent idea, but I had failed to hear all these valuable instructions.  My mouth had been too busy flapping, trying to make friends with everyone on a Saturday stroll.

Whilst GL dealt with his Second-in-Commands, I feigned interest in the rules of hiking, but in reality, I was trying to get a good peek at the guy’s make-up. Due to the early start that morning, I hadn’t had time to put on any make-up. Sally thought I was daft for even considering cosmetics for the ‘easy stroll’ we had enrolled on, but I always feel uncomfortable without makeup. I assessed the makeup skills of the tall, slim hiker.  Frankly, the heavily made-up appearance, coupled with poor shaving skills, wasn’t to be admired, and the colours chosen clashed and jarred with the surrounding natural beauty we found ourselves in.

In the end, I found the hike totally beyond my capabilities. I finally cottoned on to the difference between a Hike and Walk - and found no comparison. I felt as if I was being put through the wringer. I was not fit enough for the proposed hike and lacked the enthusiasm required. I also found that several enjoyable components were missing. I definitely couldn’t talk as much as I wanted. I only had enough breath to keep going, and I had nothing left to carry on my interminable chatting. I couldn’t stop and rest when I wanted to because I was too slow; I was expected to keep up with everyone else to ensure I wasn’t lost. I hadn’t realised how dangerous underfoot it would get. I frequently ended up face down in mud hanging over precarious sheer drops, hands scrabbling to find anything to hang on to, thus stopping me from disappearing completely into the undergrowth and rivers way below. I couldn’t help but notice that no one else seemed to have the same number of mishaps as myself.

After a comparatively short time, I’d had enough of GL’s scrawny bottom, determinedly bobbing away as he continued to run up and down the mountainside whilst shouting with sheer joy: 

“Now the real climb starts; forget the mud, snakes and leeches; put your backs into it”.  

I looked back at a small section of light piercing the clouds and noted how much we had ascended. However, as we continued climbing, the distance we could see in front of us diminished rapidly due to the black clouds that were now cloyingly hanging around our heads and shoulders.  We were hiking in a rich, dark forest, steep and slippy, trees tightly twisted together, and due to the rain clouds, it was almost pitch black. The cloud-muffled, motivating shouts of “the view is spectacular’ coming from GL halfway up the mountain seemed a little wasted on our sorry group.  

Sally and I took a deep breath, silently acknowledging our defeat, and told the Backstop men we would not do the next ascent. The men looked shocked and amazed and felt strongly that we were missing out on not seeing the ‘Buddha’s Footprint’.  As I couldn’t see mine or Sally’s feet in the enveloping cloudy mist, it seemed doubtful I would be able to see Buddha’s feet at a higher, darker, wetter altitude. So, with permission granted by GL, the two of us turned back and set off down the mountainside only to discover what a fantastic walk we seemed to have missed.  

As we broke through the low-hung clouds, we could finally see the stunning countryside surrounding us. This must have been the view GL could see at the higher altitude. Colours we had failed to see on the way up just abounded. As Sally and I left the rainforest, gaps slowly appeared in the clouds, and we could see a patchwork of rice fields in the distance. As the ground rose towards the mountains behind us, tropical plants festooned in bright yellow, orange, red or purple flowers were everywhere. As the thick forest slowly thinned out, we saw Orchid plants and Magnolia trees. The riot of colour and smells was breathtaking. We were descending from a different angle. We came across small settlements nestling amongst the mountainsides offering covered seating areas, where Sally and I thankfully sank, all our senses exhausted by the stunning views. Due to the cooler mountain temperatures and humidity, we were surprised to see a charming English country garden displaying many exquisite plants and flowers uncommon in Thailand. The only noises we could hear were the tweeting of birds, mainly parrots, and the low rumbling thunder coming nearer and ever nearer.  

Sliding down the mountainside, we finally arrived back in the village just as the sky turned to total blackness, followed by a downpour of torrential freezing rain, and almost immediate flash flooding, making the mud even stickier than before. Arriving at a different location in the village, we found a local café and ran, squealing with joy, as we sought shelter under the corrugated roof.  

Peering over the cafe counter and watching the hot, spicy flavoursome Northern Thai soup being constantly stirred, we child-like licked our lips in anticipation; handing over a few coins, we oversaw the soup carried to our table. Sitting under the tin roof in the deafening rain, we gulped and slurped our delicious hot soup, the speed only impeded as we tried to wipe away the thick goo running out of our noses.  

Sally sat silently, staring into space, presumably planning our next casual stroll.